Going Into Overtime
by Grimm0000
Summary: Post Long Game. The Editor has survived the Doctor's victory, and struggles to keep his life and his sanity in the aftermath.


I own nothing except my cat and a few canvases with paint on them.

This is my first fic. I apologize for all spelling errors.

Because I'm sure they are there. Just hiding from me. I hope you all enjoy this slightly random story with a slightly random character who was only in one episode.

Note: Set during and post 'The Long Game'. Starring the Editor.

* * *

She clung to his ankle like a vice. He was kicking, screaming, trying his hardest to escape her but still she clung. Above him his boss, The Mighty Jagrafess of the Holy Hadrojassic Maxarodenfoe, was swelling, bulging, dripping with sweat.

He was blowing up like a balloon. There was no doubt in the editors mind what was about to happen.

Max was going to blow.

That corpse Suki, Eva. She was going to kill him.

There was no time for regrets. No time for guilt or to enjoy the irony of the situation. He only had time for a white hot flash of rage.

Next thing he knew gooey fleshy scalding hot chunks where all over. So much bloody mess. So much heat. It hurt. It stunk. It burned, oh did it burn.

He peered down at his feet. A portion of Max's 'head', the toothy part to be exact, had affixed itself to Eva's back. He grinned through the pain. 'That'll show her.' He thought. He started to loose consciousness, fighting it he tried to pull himself free from the dead girls grasp. He made it all of a foot before passing out.

He opened his eyes some time later to find not much changed.

Still a corpse by his foot, check.

Still bits and pieces of his former boss strewn around the room, check.

Still an immense amount of pain coursing through his body, double check.

There seemed to be a marked darkness that hadn't been there when he had last been conscious. He wasn't sure what to make of that.

Yes, he was fairly sure that the room was darker than it used to be.

The explosion must have shorted something out.

He made an attempt to sit up. Pain shot through, well, everything. He checked himself, noting the damage.

His suit was defenently worse for the wear. There was a good deal of scalding done to his legs and his arms, and his shoes were smoldering remains clinging to charred flesh.

Some sort of intestine or something was laying across his stomach. He reached to pull it off, and found the skin under it burned beyond recognition.

The fact he was alive he considered a positive. But his condition, and what, or rather who might have caused his condition were concerns. The woman.

The one who had killed Max. What had she done? Had she told anyone what she knew? And for that matter what did she know? But really should he still care?

How long could he really survive in his condition?

He decided not to think about it.

He swished his hand around in the warm gooey max blood that seemed to be coating the floor.

It was quiet.

He couldn't remember the last time it had been this quiet.

It hit him like a hammer. He was alone. It was gone. There was silence over the airwaves.

He tried to access something, anything! But all he got was static.

He was offline.

He felt something cold on his cheek! Sweat?

No. It wasn't sweat… though he was sweating. Tears? Really?

He was feeling things he hadn't felt in years. Feeling. The thought disgusted him.

He wasn't supposed to feel. Well. Feel these things anyway.

Happy, sure. Amusement, yeah. He often felt amused by the things he put on air, by the parasites below him, by so many things.

But this… empty feeling. This was foreign, alien, wrong!

"Hello?" it hurt to talk. "Is anyone there? Anyone!" Well. Now he was full on crying.

He lay back down and tried to relax. He licked his lips. It tasted like blood.

"Hellooooo… anyone! Please! Come on! Is there anyone listening!" He was yelling now.

Screaming. Nothing. There was no one.

He lay like that for a while, listening, silently for any sort of noise that might signal life.

"Well. A fine sort of a mess your in." He said to himself. It sounded weaker than normal. "Should have just killed them. When you had the chance."

"Next thing you know they'll be coming up here to make doubly sure you're dead."

He sat up again, aching all over, but he had to get up.

He had to hide. In case that Doctor, that time-traveler was going to come back and finish the job. He grasped the console nearest him and attempted to stand.

Very quickly he was back on the ground. He groaned. "Oh man."

"Okay. Plan B." He crawled over to a cabinet on the side of the room. Sliding the door open he pulled out the guns he had confiscated over his time as editor.

Thankfully it was a fairly large drawer. Large enough to store two fully grown humans.

He closed the door with what had been a perfectly good foot in a very nice shoe.

"Okay. So now what?" He asked himself. He sighed. There was only one thing to do.

Sit.

Wait.

See if help comes.

He closed his eyes and wished for darkness, peace.

He hadn't needed to sleep in a very long time. He hadn't wanted to sleep since he started this job.

But right now he would have given up everything he had just for a moment of rest.

He sat in the drawer for a long time. Just kind of lounging, resting his eyes. He couldn't sleep, but there was really nothing to do.

After a period of time, that felt like days, he gave up sitting quietly and decided to sing. After a while he got bored of that, and considered coming out of hiding.

They might shoot him, but he was starting to think that might not be so bad.

He shook off that thought. No. He didn't want to die, he wasn't suicidal. That would have been crazy. Right?

Okay. So something else to pass the time.

He counted to 100 in English, Japanese, and Spanish.

He regaled himself with tales from his youth. Some of which had gained a slightly foggy cast. Okay, so some were very foggy, almost to the point of blankness.

This concerned him slightly, but he shrugged that off.

So he may have been up here, away from everything a bit too long.

So he hadn't seen his family in over 20 years.

So he hadn't dated since he started working here.

So what if his only friend had been a giant space slug.

Who was now very much dead…

And his guts were on his shoes.

Maybe he should think about something else.

He opened his eyes. The silence was killing him. He had never felt so alone.

He pulled open the door.

Let them kill him.

Maybe he deserved it. After all Max didn't always kill the pests. He did it from time to time.

When Max didn't want them.

He just couldn't bring himself to care. He just couldn't take it. It was too fucking quiet.

He pulled himself out slowly, after all he was still in a crazy amount of pain.

'Still empty….' He thought. The gore and that horrific smelling goo on the floor had started to solidify and get sticky.

He was thoroughly disgusted. He kind of wished that he had the capacity to throw up.

But he didn't. He didn't even have any food in his system to throw up if he wanted to.

He crawled dry heaving slightly over to the console again.

He grabbed it and once again he made a try at standing. This time he made it.

Gasping in pain, but grinning like a insane person he made a go at walking to the elevator.

And he almost made it too. He was only a few feet away when he fell. "Damn it!"

He pulled himself up and forced himself to walk that last few feet.

Once inside the elevator he collapsed, panting.

"I did it!" he whispered. "I made it."

He closed his eyes and sighed with a sort of happiness he hadn't known in years.

After a short rest he propped himself up and entered the code to go down.

Down to humanity, and possibly his death.


End file.
